Mick raised both hands to ward them off, his face haggard and grim. “Sir. We found them stuffed into a linen closet off one of the side corridors. Trey is dead, and Talia—she’s bad hurt,” he said. “Their throats were cut. Jarat went after the healers, and Magret—the maiden Gray—she’s looking after Talia.”

Raisa pushed to her feet, numb with dread. “Where is Talia?” she demanded, taking a step toward the door. “I want to see her.”

“Your Highness, you’ll do more harm than good out there, while the healers are seeing to her,” Amon said. “And I can’t allow you to go anywhere until we’re sure the corridor is clear.” Gently, he pushed her back down into her chair.

Tears scalded Raisa’s eyes. Trey Archer was new to the Gray Wolves, and supporting a family of five. And Talia—was it only a half hour ago Raisa had been bantering with her in the corridor?

“Send someone after Pearlie,” Raisa said woodenly.

“It’s already done,” Mick said.

Raisa sat forward, gripping the arms of the chair, seized by a mixture of grief and smoldering anger.

“I’m going to find out who’s responsible for this, and that person will pay,” she swore. “This will not go unrevenged. People need to know that an attack on my guard is an attack on me.”

When she looked up, her entire bluejacketed guard was kneeling in a circle around her, tears streaking down some faces.

“This day and every day, Your Highness,” Mick said, very formally, “I think I speak for everyone here when I say that it is an honor to fight shoulder to shoulder with our Warrior Queen.”

C H A P T E R  T H I R T Y

ALLIES

Han had been away from Ragmarket for less than a year, but it looked different to his eyes—smaller, somehow, the streets narrower, meaner, and more crooked, the houses shabbier.

It was likely the same as before. He was the one who had changed.

People in Ragmarket lived vagabond lives, so it wasn’t surprising that some of the vendors at the market were different. The tenants along Cobble Street had turned over during his absence. There was a vacant lot where the stable had stood, though the blacksmith forge where he’d buried the Waterlow amulet still crouched in the yard, painted over with streetlord symbols.

It was easier to move about than before. He kept a glamour wrapped around him so people naturally stayed out of his way without really noticing him. There was less jostling from slide-handers and canting crews, fewer come-ons from the fancies and second-story aunties. He was just one more shadow in a shadowy part of the city.